Oh! breezy harp! that, with thy fond complaining,
Hast held my willing ear this whole night long;
Mourning, as one might deem, that pale moon's waning;
Sole listener, oft, of thy melodious song;
Sweet harp! if hushed awhile that tuneful sorrow,
Which may not flow unintermitted still,
A lover's prayer one strain, less sad, might borrow
Of all thou pourest at thine own sweet will;
Now when, her forehead in the moonlight beaming,
Yon dark-tress'd maid, beneath the softening hour,
As fain to lose no touch of thy sad streaming,
Leans to the night from forth her latticed bower;

And this low whispering air, and thy lorn ditty
Around her heart their mingled spell have wove;
Now cease awhile that lay, which plains for pity,
To wake thy bolder song that tells of love.